


Shipwrecked Shore

by Weissnichtwo (LoudenSwain713)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angry John Laurens, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Character Death, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, John Laurens-centric, M/M, Marquis de Lafayette is a Good Friend, No one deserves him honestly, Sad John Laurens, Schuylkill river incident, depending on your interpretation of history, kinda historically inaccurate, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25897507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoudenSwain713/pseuds/Weissnichtwo
Summary: In which Alexander Hamilton leaves to burn a flour mill and does not return. John Laurens does not take this well.(Neither does anyone else.)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, John Laurens & George Washington, John Laurens & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	Shipwrecked Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazyreader12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyreader12/gifts).



> All the respect and love to crazyreader. I have so enjoyed getting to know you; you're an amazing beta and a spectacular friend. Go read her stuff!
> 
> The title is based on this poem by Erin Hanson:
> 
> My heart's a lonesome island,  
> Disaster lines its shipwrecked shore,  
> A fleet of souls that thought they'd found,  
> What they'd been searching for,  
> But your treasure maps were lying,  
> There's nothing gold beneath my sand,  
> Don't let the sea convince you,  
> That it's safer on my land,  
> You might be a skilful sailor,  
> With nothing but the purest aim,  
> But I have fought so many pirates,  
> That you now all look the same,  
> So take heed of my lighthouse,  
> Even waves break on my rocks,  
> There's a reason not a single ship,  
> Has made it to my docks,  
> And I wish I could offer shelter,  
> From those storm clouds in my sky,  
> Because you've not made it ashore,  
> But you should know, neither have I.

The world falls to a point, and John cannot breathe.

Washington’s hands are steepled atop his desk as he says "...letter to Mulligan. He took..." because the truth is Alexander has no family left that can be easily located in the middle of a war. John knows he is expected to respond, to say something in the affirmative, to take on this responsibility.

But his lungs aren't moving. In his chest is the pressure exerted on the pig's bladder they'd kicked around just last week. His heart is the sound of their feet scuffing in dirt, a sound that had been, at the time, obscured by laughter. Now the noise stands alone, ringing hollowly throughout his body. He can say nothing. He can do nothing. Alex is dead and he cannot  _ breathe _ .

His chest burns with the flames of helplessness, and he cannot stop the world from crashing back down on him, halting the lure of respite that had been approaching. His lungs heave, and he coughs: once, twice, a dozen times. It doesn’t stop, and only then does he realize that he’s not coughing but crying. The sobs rattling his frame so harshly seem only to increase when John feels arms wrap, tentatively and then with growing conviction, around him.

“Breathe,  _ mon ami _ .  _ Respire _ .” No more words are forthcoming from Lafayette, but John tries to obey them anyway. He shakes with the effort, spittle flying from his lips, but eventually he calms enough that the world opens up slightly and he can shrug off the embrace, swallowing harshly.

“I-” he starts to say and then falls silent. There is nothing to say. There is nothing to be said for the loss that lies heavy in the air, weighing his tongue down so greatly that no words can escape even if he finds the right ones.

Washington has moved from behind his desk to the doorway, and John doesn’t want to think about how long he was unaware of his surroundings, how long he had been exposed so vulnerably. But when he looks up at his general, the man’s eyes are kind and shadowed with their own grief. “You aren’t needed for the rest of the night, Colonel. There is nothing that needs to be done that cannot be finished tomorrow.”

John does not try to hide the way his mouth drops open, even as his hands are trembling. He looks from Washington to Lafayette and back again, pressing his lips together in a line that just keeps them from quivering. “Sir! That’s not necessary, I swear. I can do my work. Let me-”

“No, Laurens,” Washington continues, his tone final. “None of us are continuing our work, not tonight.” His voice gives away nothing, but John is hit with the sudden realization that the older man has known Alexander for considerably longer than he himself has. 

Something noxious and nauseous tightens in his gut, and he nods. “Am I dismissed, sir?” he asks, knowing that he is teetering on the edge of disrespect and not quite caring. The consequences of the world seem far away and blurry, too distant to matter to him. The only thing clear is that Alexander,  _ his _ Alex, is gone. The truth of it is knife-sharp, tracing dread in bloody lines beneath his skin.

The dismissal from Washington allows John a moment of quiet in the hallway before Lafayette walks up to him, slow and silent like he is an animal to be startled. “John…” His voice is gentle and grating, and John is torn between turning to it and walking away before the conversation continues.

He compromises. “What?” he asks, face turned just a fraction to his friend though his feet do not still.

John hears a sigh, and his fist tightens. What right does this boy have to grieve? Lafayette did not know Alexander. He does not know how his Alex’s smile would spark even after hours of letter-writing, how his body would sag with exhaustion and lose the careful rigidity he'd carried all day as soon as they were alone in their tent. John knew him for only a month, yet he had committed every line of his face to his sketchbook, every mark on his skin seared into memory. In five weeks John loved Alexander more truly than he has loved anyone else in a year. Lafayette has no room to miss Alex because he did not know him, not as John did. But he can muster none of the energy to say this, so he waits for a response.

“I know how close-”

John cannot gather the energy to be cautious, but at the words, insidious and greedy, the urge to lash out comes quick and easy and unavoidable. He has never possessed great skill with language, not like Alexander, but perhaps his spirit is flowing through him, for the images come to him precise and exact. “You know nothing! You cannot know the depth of my feelings for him anymore than a fish can know forests. He was radiant, casting light on me from within my cave, whereas you have only ever known darkness. You cannot know the life that he gave me because you have never been without breath, but I was a corpse before I met him! You do not-” And then he falls, knees, voice, and will collapsing all at once and plunging him towards the yawning cavern at his feet.

Lafayette catches him, supporting most of his weight and drawing him close once again. His voice is soothing and calm, and John feels all the worse for it. “You are right, my friend. I don’t know, and I am sorry to have presumed.” He says nothing for a moment, but John makes no move to get away or place his feet under him again. There has been enough humiliation for one night already. After a few minutes of quiet breathing, John clinging tightly and not unwillingly to his friend, Lafayette speaks again. “It is time for rest now. Would you like to sleep in my tent tonight?”

He hesitates then nods. He can regret his childish actions later, but the thought of being alone in the room they slept in together, surrounded by a scent that could only be Alexander’s, it is a burden that he is too weak to bear. 

Lafayette smiles and lets him go gradually, watching carefully as John begins to carry his own weight again. “Come, then. We both need rest, and with luck sleep will carry grief from us for a few hours.”

John does not miss the plural in his friend's statement, and again his heart flashes with a pain that he is not yet guarded against. Stress he knows well, has learned to shift his weight to accommodate it, and insecurity he drapes across his shoulders like a well-worn cloak. Guilt, even, he is familiar with: it grows daily in his gut with every passing day, so heavy now that his back arches almost naturally from its load. But this pressing loneliness, this stabbing pain in all his joints that causes every movement to scream in agony, this he does not know if he can adjust to.

The walk to the tent: downstairs, through the work room, halfway across the camp, and down a confusing number of narrow passageways, passes in a blur. He’s dimly aware of words exchanged from Lafayette to the other aides, but their responses are lost on him. Outside, the men around them are as raucous as ever, but they ask no questions and stay out of the way enough that John feels the urge to snap at them lessen as they walk. By the time Lafayette has closed the canvas flap behind them and lit a few candles, his anger has dissipated almost entirely. In its place is a weariness that drags at his bones, and he looks to Lafayette in a wordless question.

The Frenchman gestures to a bedroll on one side of the room, already made up and ready for sleep. “I keep a bed ready, in case anyone needs it.”

It is a testament to the state of his mind that he does not ask how often Lafayette welcomes guests into his tent, instead just shuffling over and laying down, pulling the blanket up around his head. This way, his feet are exposed to the fall chill, but the scratch of fabric against his cheek reminds him of the warm, lazy mornings of his childhood; for this reason, he endures the hardship on his feet, knowing it is not cold enough for danger of freezing. 

John hears the creak of worn leather as Lafayette blows the candles out and walks to his own bed for the night. There is a heavy silence in the air that comes with the lack of light and movement, even if the chatter of men can be heard clearly from outside the tent. John swallows, pulling the blanket tighter around him as if it could keep all the ill thoughts away. His throat aches with the need to cry, but it is a physical ache that, just a little, draws his mind to the here and now. 

“Good night, John,” Lafayette says, sounding very much like he’s on the verge of tears himself.

His voice is cracking as he speaks, but he bites the words out anyway. “Good night.”

They do not speak again, but John is certain that it takes at least an hour for either of them to fall asleep.

* * *

He cannot say what wakes him, but one moment he is unaware of the recent circumstances and the next he has started awake, afforded barely a moment of reprieve before the crush of reality begins to choke him. He fights it, breaths ragged and uneven but very much present, hands clenched around the blanket with so much strength that he can feel his joints start to throb. It takes effort and several lengthening breaths before he can make his fists loosen.

Because of this, he is well awake by the time Meade barges in, silhouette blurry with movement. The energy of it wipes all grief from him, and John is jumping up in an instant, already prepared to run wherever he is needed. But Meade does not move aside, his frame blocking the exit. “Lee was wrong!” he says, voice too loud for the predawn hours, and the volume of it sends a shiver down John’s spine.

Lafayette is up now, sleep still in his voice even as he tugs on his boots. “ _ Que _ ?”

“Lee was mistaken! Hamilton is alive!” His face is in shadow, but John knows there’s a grin on his face nonetheless, can hear it in his voice.

It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, he cannot stop himself from surging forwards and pushing past Meade out into the open air, legs tense and ready to run before he even knows where to be directed. 

The other man moves easily after him. “He’s at headquarters.”

That is all John cares to hear before he’s off, thinking less about what others might think of his haste and more about Alexander in his arms and breathing and  _ alive _ . It’s almost amusing how quickly his priorities have rearranged themselves around the younger man: two months ago, his steps would have been calculated, no matter how hard his heart was pounding, but two months ago Alexander Hamilton had not been brought back from the dead.

His breath is short more from the verge of panic than exertion, so it is no surprise that when his eyes rest once again, impossibly, on Alexander, his lungs ease almost immediately.

All sound silences in his mind, and the sight of everything else except the man in front of him vanishes so that when Lafayette arrives at the doorway he has to touch John’s shoulder so that he can pass. It takes Alexander a moment to look away from the other aides welcoming him back, but when he does, his gaze catches with John’s. The last reserve of fear in his chest dissolves at the sight of Alexander’s eyes, bright and shining with all the characteristic intelligence he possesses. Time slows to little more than a standstill, seconds lengthening even as John steps nearer and nearer so that it takes a small eternity to get the other man in his arms. As contact is made, his hands gripping fistfuls of Alexander’s shirt, he fights back another sob and resists the urge to bury his face in the shoulder in front of him.

When Alexander brings his own arms up to hold tightly to John, all his senses rush back in, so overwhelming as to cause him to stumble. The drip of water onto the floor from Alex’s soaked pants, the wind howling through the eaves of the house, the unsure shifting of the other aides, their blank expressions which do nothing to mask the curiosity warring with relief in their eyes. But even as the flood of sensation catches him off guard, Alex is there to steady him, embrace warm and unwavering despite the many eyes on them.

It’s then that his mind kicks in again, and he wonders how long it’s been since their touch began. It’s with reluctant motions that John moves back and loosens his grip on the man that he wants nothing more than to cling to for the rest of the night. But that is a need to be fulfilled later, and it is with a lighter heart that he cedes Alexander to Lafayette and Meade. Even as his friends step up to congratulate the miraculously resurrected man on his safe return, their eyes remain locked. It is with tears trailing down his cheeks that he settles himself on the side of the room to watch as events unfold and then finally, finally take Alex back to their room and not let him go, but the tears are, for once, ones of relief as opposed to pain. And all the weight of his fears and doubts seems to lift for a time, all because of the sight of his love returned to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Kudos and comments are appreciated <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at rhea-imagined


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